


to lay our finest gifts before the king

by fav_littleleaf



Series: Sixth Form AU [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Asexual Character, Elias adores Jon I don't make the rules, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, Frottage, Gaslighting, I can't be the only one, I swoon a little when Elias calls Jon love, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Praise Kink, Seduction, Teacher-Student Relationship, Touch-Starved, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Sex, a long meditation on what it's like to be sex-repulsed but desperately crave touch, by fluffy I mean tender as all FUCK, excessive but not gratuitous use of pet names, pet name use is probably gratuitous now, spoiler alert: it sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27859585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fav_littleleaf/pseuds/fav_littleleaf
Summary: Elias Bouchard just wants to dote on his favourite student. Is that so wrong?It happens five months after their first kiss.They’ve established a routine of sorts: on weekends, when Elias isn’t away, Jon tells his grandmother that he’s going to sleep over at Martin’s. She never asks questions, is just overjoyed that Jon has made himself a little friend. Martin was hard to convince on this plan at first, at least until Elias — Mr. Bouchard — pulled him aside after History one day and the matter was abruptly settled. Jon never had the stomach to ask Martin what he’d said.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Sixth Form AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092527
Comments: 22
Kudos: 90





	1. Yours

_Our finest gifts we bring, to lay before the king,  
_ _and honour him when we come.  
_ _I played my best for him,  
_ _and then he smiled at me._

It happens five months after their first kiss.

They’ve established a routine of sorts: on weekends, when Elias isn’t away, Jon tells his grandmother that he’s going to sleep over at Martin’s. She never asks questions, is just overjoyed that Jon has made himself a little friend. Martin was hard to convince on this plan at first, at least until Elias — Mr. Bouchard — pulled him aside after History one day and the matter was abruptly settled. Jon never had the stomach to ask Martin what he’d said.

They spend most evenings curled up on the couch. After devouring takeout, Jon reads to him: sprawling epics, tales of war and famine, corruption and desolation. Elias listens like he’s never heard a single more fascinating thing in his life. When they go to bed, Elias holds Jon close to his chest and kisses him when he cries. He never pressures him for sex. On Monday, the name _Mr. Bouchard_ falls from his lips with practised ease, as Jon tells him that the panopticon was first designed by the philosopher Jeremy Bentham in 1799. 

_Good, Jon,_ he always praises, and Jon glows until Martin elbows him.

But this? This isn’t routine.

Elias’s townhouse is dark when Jon nudges the door open. It’s silent, and the dress shoes lie undisturbed by the doorframe.

“Elias?” he calls out. 

When there’s no response, he flips on the foyer light. The new line of vision draws his attention down the hall, where a curious aroma is wafting from the kitchen. It smells like someone had been… cooking? Jon can barely suppress a snort. With the money this man had, he could buy an entire restaurant to cook privately for him and still have enough left over to buy a few townhouses in Westminster.

Doesn’t matter that Elias won’t tell where he gets that kind of money, as a sixth form history teacher. It’s not like Jon is privy to all his secrets.

He’s about to inspect the kitchen when a flash of movement flits across his peripheral vision, and suddenly he’s being accosted from behind.

_“What in —”_

Jon throws his hands up in defense, but then a rush of relief washes over him when he realizes it’s just Elias.

“Elias — god, you scared me."

Elias just hums and encircles his arms around Jon’s waist, dipping his head to press a kiss to Jon’s shoulder. Jon leans his head back by instinct and inhales the familiar scent of sandalwood. He forgets to be pissed off. 

“Jumpy, are we?” Elias’s smooth voice plucks all the fear from his brain and replaces it with warmth. “I missed you, dear.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “It’s been like three hours.”

“Yes, but far longer than that since I’ve been able to touch you,” Elias whispers, and his lips find the tender skin at Jon’s throat. He shivers at the contact. It’s been far too long since anyone has touched him. (He briefly entertains the possibility that Elias is as lonely as he is. No, that doesn’t make sense.)

“Why are you wandering about in the dark like a serial killer?” Jon says, largely to hide how affected he is.

“A handsome serial killer, I hope?”

“Oh, sod off.” 

He pushes away from Elias, but Elias catches his arms mid-way, turning him round and pressing him gently back against the wall of the foyer. Elias leans down to kiss him, his mouth soft and comforting after — yes, he’ll admit — too long apart.

Jon steps back against the wall, unable to stop a soft noise of pleasure from escaping him. Elias is being more handsy than usual, but Jon can’t complain. He had been away on Institute business last weekend and Jon ached to be touched, even more than usual. It wasn’t even a sexual thing — he preferred cuddling, all things considered — but he couldn’t afford to be choosy.

“You taste like mint,” Elias whispers when they break for air, tracing Jon’s jaw with his fingers. “Is that for me?”

Heat floods his cheeks. He’s too embarrassed to say yes. “Do you like it?”

“I like everything about your mouth,” Elias replies, his smile wicked.

Jon doesn’t have time to hide the spreading flush over his face before Elias hoists him up into the air and brings them through the sitting room. Jon breaks into breathless laughter and protests, but his arms are instinctively wrapped around Elias’s neck, and Elias deftly ignores him.

They end up at his absurdly large balcony; it’s probably larger than most people’s bedrooms in London. Elias doesn’t set him down at the entrance, just unlatches and slides the door open with a practised hand, like he carries people over the threshold all the time. 

Jon breathes in deeply at the sight once he’s safely on the ground. 

Night has fallen over the city; he can trace and name the colourful outlines of each of the major landmarks, something he does every night from his room when he’s alone. Just ahead of him, a small dinner table is set near the railing. It boasts a green-checkered cloth, candles that smell of spruce trees, and an array of food for more than two. A bottle of wine. Dried rose petals lay a path along the concrete floor, and a few of them riffle slightly in the wind.

The fanfare is a sight to behold, but has part of him on edge. Is Elias going to _propose?_ Make some dramatic proclamation of love that will make him want to hide under a rock and never come out? Not to mention the mess at school. God. His life is a mess.

“Elias —” he starts, but can’t find any words to follow it.

“I made dinner,” Elias says, and if Jon didn’t know any better, he would have called it _shy._

“I see that,” Jon says, walking around to inspect the food, but he doesn’t get far before the chilly wind stymies him. “But why?

Elias just gives him a mild smile. “Can’t I treat my darling every once in a while?”

“Not without just cause,” Jon mutters, crossing his arms. 

“Mm. You always feel like you have to earn everything.” Elias steps in close to place warm hands on his arms. “What if it were just a gift?”

_A gift._

That’s just not the kind of world they live in.

But then Elias is mouthing at his neck again, whispering meaningless praise as he draws his hands down his waist, and Jon is helpless to it; before he can think to resist, he’s uncrossing his arms and melting into Elias’s body.

Elias presses him up against the railing, kissing him with more insistence than before. He angles a leg between Jon’s, coaxing their hips together and drawing a gasp from his mouth. It’s a little more than he can handle at the moment, but he craves the breathlessness of it, the way it empties him of all other feelings and fills him up with static.

“Elias, we should –ah, eat —”

Elias steps back, laughing a little. “Sorry,” he whispers, biting his lip. “I’ve missed you.”

Jon just swipes at him as he sits down. He tries not to think about what Martin said.

* * *

Despite his best efforts, Jon can do little more than poke at his food. Elias regales him with tales of what he has been up to at the Institute, which he’d normally take great interest in, but unease needles at him. The little holes they poke through his skin allow sinister doubts to creep in.

 _He’s just using you,_ Martin had said. _Why do you think he doesn’t hang out with people his own age?_

_And don’t say it’s because he thinks you’re special._

They hadn’t spoken to each other for days after that, even after he’d apologized ( _it’s not that I don’t think you’re special, Jon — Jon, please_ ). 

And the sex thing? That was just absurd. Elias had always respected it when Jon needed to stop or slow down, and accepted that he was a _man._ That was more than he could say for pretty much anyone else at school. And if he was different today, that was just because Elias had missed him.

 _No_ , Jon decides — Elias is good.

Jon takes a deep breath and allows himself to relax a little.

Elias smiles at him as he pauses in his storytelling. “Dear, what’s wrong?” Slender fingers flirt with the rim of his half-empty wine glass. “You’ve hardly said anything all night.”

He tears his eyes away from Elias’s fingers. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m okay.”

Elias’s expression is neutral as he considers Jon. Jon wishes he could know what he’s thinking. “Why don’t you have some wine?”

He doesn’t really want any — the taste is a bit objectionable — but he has half a mind to accept just so he can watch Elias’s fingers handle the bottle in the smooth way they do everything. He almost snorts with the thought. He’s so far gone, it’s ridiculous.

“Cabernet Sauvignon, 2016, from Napa Valley. It’s top shelf, Jon.”

The way Elias’s mouth curls around the words in French has butterflies fluttering in his stomach. “Alright,” he says softly.

Elias smiles and picks up the bottle, but instead of drawing Jon’s glass towards him, he holds it out to Jon. “Why don’t you do the honours? I wouldn’t want to give you too much.”

Jon swallows and nods. Their fingers brush as he takes the bottle. It’s heavier than he expected as he puts it to the rim of his glass. The silence feels like it’s expanding around them as the wine swishes from bottle to glass, one entrapment to the other.

Is Elias disappointed in him for not wanting to talk about it?

“Twist it a little as you lift so it doesn’t spill,” Elias supplies. “That’s it.”

“Elias, I —”

“It’s all right, Jon. I just want you to be happy.”

Jon sighs. He doesn’t meet Elias’s gaze. “It’s just… my friend, he thinks…” Jon hesitates. He can’t accuse Elias of _using him_ to his face. “He thinks you’re too old for me.”

There’s silence for a moment, but Jon still doesn’t want to look at him. He takes hold of his napkin and kneads it between his fingers.

“Who told you that?” Elias’s tone isn’t pleased. “Was it Martin?”

The cloth gets caught on a bit of jagged nail on his thumb. He probably shouldn’t bite his nails so much. He tugs it free and pretends to inspect the napkin.

“Jon.”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Elias lets out an exasperated sigh. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this, but —”

“No, no _don’t_ ,” Jon says with unexpected fervor, finally looking up at him. He looks surprised; maybe that’s an advantage because he doesn’t speak. Jon says, more softly, “You don’t… you don’t need to protect me.”

Elias sighs again, but this time it’s a soft one. His hand reaches for Jon’s, the one that still clutches the napkin, and the warmth makes him close his eyes. 

“I know,” Elias says, lifting Jon’s hand to kiss his knuckles. “But I want to.”

Jon shakes his head, minutely. Being upset with Martin is like being upset with him, and he doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t feel good. Elias — sees that, somehow, and drops his hand.

“Look, about what he said… I can’t say I agree. What is age anyway? It’s the utmost hubris to assume you’re better or wiser than someone because of their age. Experiences make that, not years.”

Jon huffs. “Experiences come with years, don’t they?”

“Not necessarily. So much of it is luck, or lack thereof. Or what you seek out. You seek things out, Jon, both of us do. You don’t let knowledge pass you by. And that’s what I like about you.”

Elias’s gaze on him is intense; he feels like he’s being x-rayed.

“It’s so much more important to be curious, to _want_ to know, than to know. The rest comes in time.” Elias pauses, and for once, looks down. A lock of sandy brown hair falls across his brow. “Time that I’ll be by your side for, if you’ll let me.”

Jon swallows hard, resisting the desire to touch his face, smooth away his hair. They’d never talked about the future before. He couldn’t think about that — god, he could barely think about tomorrow. 

Before his brain gives permission, his hand reaches out for his full wine glass. He takes a sip and fails spectacularly to hide a grimace. “Who _likes_ this crap?”

Elias just laughs, full-bodied and deep, and Jon thinks maybe that’s how wine is supposed to feel: warm and beautiful and made just for him.

* * *

It isn’t until halfway through sharing Eton mess that Elias drops the bomb on him.

“Would you like to have sex tonight?”

He feels his stomach drop straight through his body and into the ground. “I-I don’t know if… if I’m ready —”

Elias just smiles and places his hand over Jon’s on the table. “We can take it slow.”

Jon turns his hand over in Elias’s, not daring to look him in the eyes. Is that what all this had been about? Trying to make him feel guilty? The roses, the roasted duck, the spruce trees — had Martin been _right?_

“Relax,” Elias says softly, squeezing his hand. “Just think about it. I don’t want to pressure you.”

Jon wants to be convinced, but his stomach complains; he feels uncomfortably like a lamb. Elias brings up something else, but Jon’s mind doesn’t follow the thread of conversation.

They’d done quite a lot together, but Elias had never been… _inside_ him. No one ever had. He didn’t want to, generally, but something about Elias turned all his insides to mush and made everything feel hazy and confused.

Elias had been so patient with him this entire time. Any other boyfriend would have broken up with him by now. If Jon were older, they might have slept together the first night — or that’s what he heard people did in their thirties, anyway. It made him shiver with disgust. Would he ever be like that? Is that what he had to do to become an adult?

There was no question about that — he wanted to be an adult. And he wanted to please Elias.

So how could he choose anything different?

Jon doesn’t wait for Elias to finish his sentence before he blurts out: “You won’t hurt me?”

Elias doesn’t answer at first, perhaps bemused by the sudden change in topic. But then his face changes; his green eyes turn soft and gentle in a way they rarely are.

He gets up from the table, which makes Jon jumpy with anxiety. Had he said something wrong? Was that offensive? He curls his fingers into a fist, but doesn’t have time to cut skin before Elias rattles him further.

Elias is kneeling before Jon.

The sight of this man on one knee — in a pressed, collared shirt and trousers — is uniquely disconcerting. That he’s like this for Jon short circuits his brain. He stares at his own hands in his lap.

Elias takes Jon’s hand in his. “Look at me, love.”

He does, reluctantly, and finds those same gentle eyes.

“You say a single word, Jon, and everything stops.”

Jon’s not sure if he’ll ever breathe again, by how much his throat has closed up. “Really?” he whispers.

“I promise.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear catches along his jaw, rolling to peek under his chin. He swipes stubbornly at his eyes.

Elias smiles, and leans to kiss him on the forehead. With a parting squeeze to Jon’s hand, he gets up and returns to his chair.

Before Jon can fully recover, Elias speaks again, so quietly he almost can’t hear it. “I hope it doesn’t seem like I’m doing all this because I want you to sleep with me, Jon. I would never do that. I just want to appreciate you.”

Jon looks up sharply at him — at least he has the decency to look embarrassed. His tone is too soft and earnest, his eyes too pleading, for all of this to be a lie.

Despite himself, Jon nods.

“Good,” Elias whispers. “Now, come here.” 

He plunges a spoon into the remaining Eton mess, and lifts a particularly delicious-looking heapful of berries and whipped cream to Jon’s mouth. It’s not the first bite he’s had, but this one tastes like cold rapture, and when Elias leans forward to kiss him, his body sings. 

If someone asked him where his favourite place was, it would be here, tasting strawberries and meringue on Elias’s lips, exploring the beautiful splendour of his mouth, shielded from the dark and cold. It didn’t matter what anyone else said; no one could ever take that away.


	2. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I really don’t know what I expected, given that Jon here is basically myself at 17 (and has uncomfortable similarities to myself at 28 because COVID), but this turned into … a lot. mind the tags, my loves <3
> 
> words used for Jon’s anatomy: slit, folds, cock, cunt, pubic mound

Elias coaxes him into having more wine, in the end.

His cheeks are flushed, chest warm, and lips tingling from the memory of Elias’s mouth, sweet with berries and ill-earned affection. He sits between Elias’s legs, curled up on his side against Elias’s chest, breathing in time with the grounding rhythm of his heart. Jon reads to him in a soft voice, joined only by the sound of fire crackling across from their twined position on the couch. He pauses every few pages to brush his lips against Elias’s neck, to remind himself of his skin, as if it could disappear any moment.

“Beautiful darling,” he murmurs into Jon’s hair.

Jon sighs and turns the page. He reads a little faster and a little higher, like devouring someone else’s words might allay the creeping, unreasonable fear that his luck has run out with Elias.

Elias hasn’t mentioned sex again since dinner, or touched Jon in any way beyond simple affection, but it preys upon his mind as he thumbs the pages of the book. They’re fraying and rough and by an author he’s already read, so his mind wanders relentlessly, skittering from thought to thought before he can chase after them.

_A peculiar honey seeps into her dreams. It mixes with the water that drowns her, that denies her oxygen and light and leaves only piercing wails that ricochet against the cavern walls. It’s a soft thing — warm, too, and she swims towards it, aching for its mawkish tang, for anything but this hellscape of jagged rock._

The truth was, they’d gone pretty far already. Elias had him gasping and breathless under him more often than he could remember, although he had never made Jon take his… well, _him_ in his mouth. The idea makes him shudder a bit, really, but as for everything else: how different could it really be to have Elias inside of him?

As Jon turns another page, the words barely glossing over his consciousness, he registers Elias’s stillness against his shoulder. He shifts in Elias’s lap, edging closer to him in silent request. But his fingers don’t find their familiar place tucked under Jon’s shirt at his hip, and don’t trace lazy circles on his skin.

_Someone whispers something from the depths. The voice isn’t from here; it’s too distant, too soft for this place. She exhales all of the trapped oxygen in her mouth, like opening her body will let the gentleness rush in to take its place. Air is scarce in this place, but she needs it, needs that gentle caress of a voice —_

Jon remembers people at school muttering in the hallways about sex, safely out of earshot of the teachers — how they couldn’t wait to do it, how they were always trying to hatch plans to have sex when their parents weren’t home. Well, Elias owns an entire house, and here he is, whining about how someone wants him, wishing they could just _cuddle_ like some kind of pre-pubescent moron.

And maybe Elias is impatient too, but at least he has the good grace to be respectful about it. For months, now, and even this evening: they’ve read, kissed, curled up together, and still nothing has happened. It’s all so _normal._ Reserved, even.

Elias’s arm lies still around his waist, and Jon tracks his gaze to one of the bookshelves across the room. Jon drops one hand from the book to graze over the pressed cotton of his shirt, but Elias just offers him a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What is it?” 

“Nothing, darling,” Elias says. He tightens his arm around Jon’s waist, and presses a warm kiss to his temple. “I’m just tired.” 

“Do you want to go to bed?”

One of the logs in the fire decides it has burned enough, and it cracks under the weight of the ones above it. The slow crumble of wood ensnares his attention, away from the anxious thoughts rushing like a river in his brain.

Elias’s lips trail over Jon’s ear. “Just keep reading for me,” he whispers.

He leans heavily against Elias and sighs. His attention returns to the book, but its hold on him is even less pronounced than before.

_Water plunges into her mouth instead, and she coughs and sputters and tugs uselessly at the ceiling above her. It doesn’t give. She cries out underwater, but all that comes out are bubbles. Her legs flail uselessly against an unassailable current._

He’d found out about asexuality on some forsaken corner of the internet, but that seemed silly as a descriptor for himself. He _loved_ touching and kissing, wanted it all the time; just hadn’t been ready yet for the natural extension of that.

He could be like the people at school, he could be _normal_ — if there was anyone he wanted to be that for, it was Elias. And if he had to do it someday, then his first time should be with someone who cares for him. 

Right?

_A scream tears through her torment:_

_“Take her, not me!”_

It’s with that thought that Jon closes the book and sets it down near his ankles. He leans up to nuzzle at Elias’s neck again, this time with an open-mouthed kiss. He can want this. He wants so much anyway: Elias’s tongue in his mouth, Elias’s fingertips leaving marks on his waist, Elias’s body pressing him down into the cushions. It feels secure and safe and the desire for it ripples across his body in thousands of sparking, jittery nerve impulses. It’s not so hard to imagine more.

Elias sighs in response to Jon’s touch and draws both his arms around Jon’s hips. Jon continues kissing his neck as he breathes deeply in the sweet zest of bergamot, closing his eyes to surrender to it. His fingers thumb at the second button of Elias’s dress shirt.

Elias catches his wrist, but his voice is low and husky when he speaks. “Jon. Not right now.”

The rejection stings. “I thought you wanted —”

“It’s not about what I want, love.”

Jon swallows. It feels weird to be called out like this, like he hadn’t thought properly about any of it, despite trying very hard. “I-I… I don’t know what I want.”

“Then we shouldn’t.”

Jon breathes out a heavy sigh. “You’re right,” he whispers. He tilts his head up for a chaste kiss. Soft fingers rise to cradle the tip of his chin, and something inside him _aches_ for the embrace of something he does not know how to name.

Elias draws away, and their foreheads press together. “Come on, it’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

He wants to cry, but he doesn’t; just nods and follows Elias out the room, leaving the embers to devour the remaining life.

* * *

Like everything in Elias’s home, his bedroom exudes indulgence. There’s a fireplace here, too, but this one is dark and cold. Floor-to-ceiling windows welcome an alabaster glow from the crescent moon, illuminating ornate bookshelves that line the entire wall opposite his mahogany four-poster bed.

While he waits for Elias to shower and change, Jon roots around in his drawers to look for something comfortable to wear. He searches, mostly by touch, until his hands brush upon the familiar sensation of 100% cotton. It’s his favourite T-shirt of Elias’s, emblazoned with three calico cats on the front. Too large for Elias, which means it drowns out Jon, and being so encased in something soft offers him a lopsided relief.

Jon sheds his trousers and curls up under the duvet, bringing his knees up to his chest. He shuts his eyes tight. The night feels remarkably lonely for how it usually feels to be with Elias, but he has no idea how to ask for what he wants, or what that even is. It’s too cool in the sheets without him, too silent. He hugs his knees closer and digs his fingernails into his shin, just so he can feel _something._ It doesn’t hurt enough.

A click of the door announces Elias’s return.

The duvet shifts behind him, and he’s rewarded for his patience with the aroma of eucalyptus and spearmint. The freshness envelops him as Elias’s lips find his neck. It feels almost burning after the lifelessness of the room without him. Elias nuzzles in closer, his skin hot against Jon’s back and thighs. Jon sighs and uncurls his body to lean back into Elias’s embrace, wanting, _needing_ to feel all of him. He’s dressed only in underwear, and the press of skin against skin along Jon’s entire body sends him into a breathy stratosphere.

“I apologize for being cool with you earlier,” Elias whispers into the dip of his collarbone. He shivers. “Showers do wonders for the soul, it seems.”

“That’s okay,” he manages to choke out between feverish breaths.

Elias hums softly, and his hands inch under Jon’s — Elias’s — shirt, seeking more skin. Jon tilts his head back to expose his neck further to Elias’s mouth, exhaling a long sigh when his teeth alight gently on his jugular vein.

“Elias,” Jon whispers.

“Mm?” Even that one syllable unravels him: a breathy, sensual sound, placed gently in the dark just for him.

“I want you.”

He swears the sound Elias makes is a growl. As Jon presses even further back into him, Elias leans forward, over Jon’s shoulder, to find his mouth. The kiss fills him with a sweet anticipation, twinged over sharp angles with fear. He’s toeing the line right now, but he doesn’t care; he’d bulldoze right over it if it meant the brutal loneliness would stop.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t care,” Jon breathes, “ _please_ , just touch me —”

He doesn’t finish before Elias pushes his shoulder down until he’s flat on his back. Elias shifts on top of Jon and tangles their legs together, like theirs are the final two pieces of a long-abandoned puzzle. And when Elias dips to kiss him, Jon wishes he could stay right here forever. It could be their own little heaven: free from fog, from sorrow, pressed down with physical weight and the promise that nothing that causes him pain will ever have to do so again. Not here.

“My sweet darling,” Elias murmurs against Jon’s lips. His own are curled into a smile. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Jon’s cheeks flush; he’s not beautiful by any stretch of imagination. He laces his fingers across the back of Elias’s neck to pull him down, to tuck himself into the crook of Elias’s neck, where it’s safe and dark.

“And so shy, too.” A hint of amusement colours his voice as he places a kiss on Jon’s hair. “Well, if you don’t believe me, I’ll just have to show you.”

Jon swallows — in fear or anticipation, he doesn’t know — and before his brain is on board he’s responding to Elias’s touch, lifting his arms over his head to allow Elias to slide his shirt off. He resists the urge to hide from the intensity of Elias’s gaze over his bare skin.

Elias kisses down Jon’s body, finding all his most sensitive places with the skill of an artist: the dip of his collarbone, the swell of his nipples, the soft curve of his navel. Elias lays each stroke with a patience and gentleness that make his nerves sing with the relief of being _seen,_ not just devoured. He has never been adored like this in his life, by anyone, for anything. It’s overwhelming and baffling and short-circuits his nerves until they’re just frayed, open wires.

When Elias looks up at him, his fingers brushing ever so softly along the waistband of Jon’s boxer briefs, the wires lose all connection to power.

Elias fixes him with a wicked smile, pulls down the fabric just enough, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his hipbone. It’s all teeth and tongue, wet and warm in all the most inviting ways.

Jon arches on the bed and _moans_.

“Mm. There you are,” Elias whispers. “I like to hear you when it feels good.”

The words unwrap something dark and shameful in him, an ardent want to please, and he bites his lip to prevent another sound. Elias’s gaze is trained on his face, a look that seeks permission; Jon gives it with a minute nod. His body starts to tremble all over as he raises his hips to allow Elias to remove his briefs.

_You say a single word and everything stops._

He has to believe it’s true, has to believe that he is the only one destroying his own agency. 

He bites his lip, tastes something that might be blood as it trickles under his tongue.

The cool air rushes over his now totally-exposed skin, and it doesn’t help how much his body is shaking. Elias lifts Jon’s legs and spreads them apart, curling fingers around his inner thighs. As he kneads the soft flesh, Elias regards Jon with dark, half-lidded eyes. His lips curve up in a languid smile before he presses a kiss to the crease of Jon’s thighs: on the left first, then the right, still so slow, like he’s never done anything so momentous. Jon sucks in a sharp rush of breath. Elias’s hands are so warm, soft against the tender vulnerability of his skin — a part of himself that he never bares to anyone.

He wants to close his eyes, but he can’t; he is drawn by the force of magnets to Elias’s unrepentant gaze. Elias parts his lips and traces with his tongue along the edge of Jon’s pubic mound, laving attention everywhere but where his body throbs for it. Jon shifts on the bed, unconsciously bucking up into Elias’s touch, but Elias just flattens his hand over Jon’s hipbone, making a disapproving noise that he feels more than hears.

Just when he thinks he might have remembered how to breathe normally, Elias draws his lips over Jon’s hot, damp skin and kisses — _once, twice_ — just above his cock. The gentlest press of teeth against the sensitive hood brings a hot rush of blood to everywhere that used to feel cold, and the sound it pulls from him is obscene.

“Elias,” he whispers, but he’s not sure what he means to say. _Stop? Keep going?_

There are no waypoints in his head for this. Only a hazy fog of pleasure, and he doesn’t know what direction hides torment in its depths. He doesn’t think _keep going_ would end well, but Elias has never smiled at him like this before, and he _wants_ it, wants to be good with a burning that he can’t remember ever feeling. 

“You’re doing beautifully, Jon.”

He has to close his eyes at that. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t let them spill over. _Just hold me,_ he wants to say. His throat constricts around the words as he tries to form them. 

Maybe Elias hears him anyway, because he comes back up to lie next to Jon, hugging him to his body, hot skin against skin. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, and Jon shivers at the gentleness in his tone. “Relax, darling. Shh, you’re all right.”

Jon takes short, hitching breaths. He nods against Elias’s neck, over and over as Elias repeats a litany of murmured endearments, laid gently like a breeze over the shell of his ear. Elias’s fingers trace little whorls in his hair and the warmth of his breath catches his sorrow, and slowly, slowly, Jon’s breaths even out. He wants Elias to know he can be good, wants Elias to know he can make himself want it. It’s not so hard.

His body already wants it — despite how soft Elias’s embrace is, he feels uncomfortably slick between his legs. It would be so very easy to just let Elias give his body what it craves. He just needs his mind to catch up.

Jon presses in to him, just a little closer, and Elias’s arm comes low around his waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

What a mess he is; what a mess Elias had chosen.

“Don’t be sorry. You’re young, perhaps I expected too much of you,” he says. Elias is blaming himself, but somehow it stings. 

“I want to try,” Jon whispers. “Let me try.”

He tilts his head up to Elias and kisses him, traces with his fingers along the hollow of Elias’s throat. Elias responds readily, opening his mouth and grazing his teeth along Jon’s bottom lip. A soft whine escapes Jon’s mouth as he opens too, accepting the gentle thrust of Elias’s tongue as he traces the outline of Jon’s lips.

Jon remembers reading in a book once that the way to make himself feel something, like happiness, was to just behave like he was anyway. Then the brain would force itself to resolve the cognitive dissonance by changing its attitude. It had always seemed too convenient a solution to him — but perhaps now, he thinks, is as good a time as any to find out.

Jon pulls him even closer, which drags their hips together with a heady friction. Elias presses a leg between Jon’s thighs, pushing his knee up against Jon’s slit, and his breath hitches sharply at the contact. He feels Elias smile against his neck, and then he’s tilting his head to allow Elias to suck and bite at the sensitive skin there.

 _It’s all right,_ a voice inside him whispers. _Let your body want this._

He clings to Elias, grasping at his back to silence the _I can’t, I don’t,_ wailing in his brain _._ Each point of contact between them burns; he can feel his body want to writhe down against Elias’s leg, up against his chest. It’s a tawdry instinct that has no basis in experience — god, before Elias, the most he’d done was recoil when some girl with greasy hair tried to shove her tongue down his throat — but the desire still skitters across synapses with a speed that he wishes would apply to literally anything else. He feels _sleazy_ , like someone had picked him up and dropped him in the back alley behind a club, left him to inhale tobacco smoke and the sweaty stench of sex.

Elias’s hand comes down between his legs, and he loses his train of thought instantly.

“Jon, dear. You’re thinking too much.” Elias’s fingers slide between his folds, exploring his wetness. His mouth forms the barest brush over Jon’s lips. “Sex is about feeling. I want you to feel it.”

“I am,” he protests weakly. He might even argue that he’s feeling just a little too much.

But Elias is heedless; he just hums and draws his thumb down to tease the hood of his cock. Jon gasps and rocks his hips into it, which has the unfortunate effect of sparking friction between his cunt and Elias’s wandering fingers. He can’t help a strangled whimper that escapes his throat while the rest of his body shivers with a prickly discomfort, like he’s doing something wrong and about to be found and scolded. Somehow, that makes the pleasure intensify, and he realizes with an unpleasant start that he _wants_ someone to watch his cunt grow wet and needy for Elias, wants to writhe and moan under him helplessly like an animal in heat.

Maybe the pretending thing would work.

“ _Yes_ ,” Elias whispers in his ear, more of a groan than an affirmation. “That’s it, darling, let me hear you.” 

Elias takes his hand away from Jon’s cunt and brings it up to his lips. Never breaking eye contact, Elias parts his lips and drags his tongue in an obscene glide over the length of his fingers. Then he puts them into his mouth and sucks, groaning like Jon’s slick is the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. Jon’s attention is hopelessly pinned on Elias’s mouth, on what it might feel like to have that delicious tongue on him. Instead of dismissing the shame that follows, he wraps it up around himself, subsuming his entire being in its wicked covenant. He pulls Elias in to taste himself on his lips, and Elias’s leg repositions _again_ between Jon’s, forcing him to roll his hips against the intrusion.

The kiss is filthy and deep, Elias’s tongue claiming Jon’s mouth until he’s whining with pleasure, little helpless noises that only intensify as Elias digs fingers into his hips, coaxing him to grind against his thigh. His head is a quagmire of feelings and jittery impulses _yes_ and _please_ and _fuck me_ , pushing away thoughts that he can no longer bear to think.

He can barely even breathe past the sensations clamoring for attention in his body — his arms hooked around Elias’s neck, nipples brushing against his muscled chest, thrusting hard and wet against his leg as Elias fucks into Jon’s mouth with his tongue. Elias pulls him in closer, digging fingernails into his arse with a sharp sting, and he cries out into Elias’s mouth. Elias’s cock presses hard against his stomach, and the feeling of it with only a flimsy layer of clothing between them drives all his fear into a singular, pulsing point of rough-hewn desire.

Elias releases his mouth to whisper filthy praise in his ear and Jon clutches onto him harder, his body a taut parenthesis of pleasure. He’s panting, straining for arcs of electricity that lift high above him, discarding the dark need and shame upon which the light is built.

“Come for me, Jon,” Elias says.

He has no recourse but to obey.

His hips jerk and stutter as he tumbles, blissfully, over the edge and into the dark. The rest of his body follows blindly, shaking, as he drops his forehead against Elias’s neck. His breaths come in hard, shallow pants. The creeping drip of intense, cold shame instantly replaces pleasure. The wetness between them feels unbearable now across both his and Elias’s legs; a laughing, stupid mockery.

Elias’s arms come around him. A warm hand cradles his hair. “You are a marvelous creature,” he whispers. His voice is laced with an unbearable fondness and rough arousal. 

Jon cannot function. He thinks he might have forgotten how to breathe. He suddenly wants to put all of his clothes back on, to hide under the blankets, far away from Elias (Mr. Bouchard, _god, what is wrong with him?_ ), or anyone else who might witness what his body is capable of — 

Elias’s hand tightens in his hair, and he brushes his lips against Jon’s in an achingly soft kiss. He leans back just a little to whisper, “You did so well, love. Can you give me a little more?”

“I, I don’t, I-I —” 

“It will feel good, I promise.” Elias rolls him gently onto his back and soothes him with a whisper. “Let yourself feel good, Jon. You deserve it.”

He clutches on to Elias’s shoulders as Elias dips his hand once more to his cunt and, without warning, presses two fingers inside him. Jon gasps and babbles something nonsensical. It doesn’t _hurt,_ but it feels wrong, like being in a dark room that’s suddenly been flooded with light. But of course it also feels right; like his body was _made_ to take Elias inside him.

Elias slides his fingers within Jon’s cunt, adding a third, heedless to the desperate noises spilling from his mouth. Elias sucks at his bottom lip, sliding his tongue into Jon’s mouth at the same time he pushes deeper inside with his fingers. His thumb finds his cock, teasing over it in little circles, and Jon cries out, his entire body shaking.

“You’re so wet,” Elias whispers, with a smile against his mouth. “I think you’re ready for me.”

Jon can only nod.

Elias loses no time in discarding his underwear, the final barrier between them. His cock is flushed dark and wet at the tip, and Jon’s stomach turns at the sight of it. He bites his lip and closes his eyes, but Elias’s fingers graze his cheek in silent question.

The words tumble out of him before he knows how to stop them. “I’m scared,” Jon whispers.

With his eyes closed, he can parse only Elias’s tone: a quiet, tender thing. “Can you be brave for me, love?”

 _I want to be brave for you._ The rush of words in his brain is like a pillar of light shining through the fog. All he can do is kneel to it, arms up in supplication. _I want to be good._

Elias smiles when he gives the smallest nod he can muster.

“Spread your legs,” he whispers. His hand is warm on Jon’s skin. “Just a little more. That’s it.”

Elias teases the tip of his cock along Jon’s slit, drawing an anxious whimper from his mouth. Jon knows it’s too big, that it’s going to hurt. And if it doesn’t — if his body takes to Elias as it already is, slick and open and _aching_ for pleasure — perhaps that’s even worse. Tantamount to betrayal.

“It’s all right, darling,” Elias whispers. He takes Jon’s hand and guides it down, coaxing him to feel his hard, throbbing flesh as it presses up against Jon’s soft, yielding warmth. “Can you feel it? How ready we are for each other?” 

Jon shuts his eyes tight and hides his face in the crook of his elbow. His throat swallows involuntarily, no longer taking cues from his conscious mind. His skin burns everywhere, sticky with sweat and fear. The tenderness in Elias’s tone keeps him very near the precipice of tears.

“Shh, it’s all right, I promise.” Elias leans down over him and gently guides his arm away from his face. “Open your eyes, Jon. Look at me.”

Elias’s eyes are normally darker, but they flare emerald in the moonlight. He takes Jon’s hand and twines their fingers together tightly next to his ear. With his other hand, Elias cradles the back of Jon’s head, his fingertips pressing firmly into his scalp. 

“I know it’s scary. But you’ve been such a good, brave boy for me.” He tilts his head to brush soft lips against Jon’s cheek. “Just hold on to my hand.”

Jon nods and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

The breath wasn’t enough; he inhales sharply again as Elias breaches him, with a pinching sensation that radiates across his entire body. It feels like being split in half, but he doesn’t want Elias to stop saying sweet things, doesn’t want him to stop holding his hand. He bites down on a pained whine and squeezes hard against Elias’s fingers. 

When their hips are pressed flush together, Elias lets out a ragged exhale. “Oh, Jon. You feel so good. I’m so proud of you.”

It’s too much. Jon starts to cry, in quiet, hitching gasps. He wonders if maybe, if he breathes enough of them, it won’t hurt anymore.

“Shhh shh, you’re okay,” Elias murmurs, holding still inside him as he smooths Jon’s hair out of his face with tender fingers. He presses a kiss to Jon’s forehead, his eyelids, each wet tear track with whispered reverence. “You’re okay, I’m here.”

Jon clutches onto Elias’s hand, shutting his eyes tight and nodding weakly. His face is hot with tears and his body detests the press of something foreign inside him, but he feels cradled and safe and important and loved. He can’t tell Elias to stop. He couldn’t bear for it to stop.

“I’m going to move now, love,” Elias whispers.

The praise, the achingly gentle brush of lips on his skin everywhere Elias can find it only makes him cry harder. Jon is surrounded by Elias, filled by him, senses overwhelmed with his scent and weight and hot breath against Jon’s neck. He wants, he _wants_ , so desperately it threatens to choke him. His cheeks are hot with the exertion of trying to rock back into Elias at the same pace he’s setting, trying to please him.

He squeezes his eyes closed tighter and wills himself not to feel it, to hear only Elias’s words as he fucks into Jon’s cunt. He just has to say no and Elias will stop. But he doesn’t want it to stop, is all. He wants him to keep whispering like Jon is the holiest thing he’s ever touched, until the world ends around them.

_You are so beautiful, Jon. You’re doing so well for me._

If he wasn’t doing this — if he said no — would he still deserve all those words?

Elias kisses him then, and Jon opens to him, willing the thoughts away. He can barely breathe through the pain and the strength of Elias’s thrusts, so the kissing turns quickly into desperate, open-mouthed panting against Elias’s lips. Elias smiles and captures Jon’s bottom lip with his teeth, biting down until Jon makes a helpless sound of surrender.

He starts to move faster, and Jon clutches onto his shoulders, holding on as best he can. The pain recedes a little, leaving white-hot flares of pleasure that spark and sizzle every time Elias thrusts into him. Elias had been quiet most of the night, but now he moans openly, panting heavily against Jon’s neck, the tempo of their breaths matching thrust for thrust. He feels a dark satisfaction that he can affect Elias this way, this man who leads with a stern hand and an even sterner tongue; that he alone can drag him down into the depths of pleasure and need.

Jon’s orgasm takes him without fanfare. Some distant part of him shudders in ecstasy, but the immediate part of him just takes a slightly shallower breath. Elias moans, responding to the impulses of Jon’s body. He keeps fucking into him, hips jerking at an uneven, brutal pace, but Jon doesn’t care that it hurts anymore.

“I’m going to come inside you,” Elias says in a broken whisper, and Jon has no wherewithal to protest.

“Yes, please,” he whispers. “I’m yours, Elias.”

His hips stutter and pause instantly in response to Jon’s confession, and he turns his head to sink his teeth into Jon’s neck. It somehow manages to release tension for both of them, and Jon bucks up into Elias instinctively at the sensation. He thrusts into him once, twice more, burying himself deep, before spilling into him with a low, guttural sound.

Jon holds tight onto him as he lets his weight down, and buries his face into Elias’s neck. He murmurs something like _oh, Jon, oh, darling._ All Jon can do is tremble.

* * *

It’s not until one hour later, when he’s gotten up to use the washroom for the second time, that he allows himself to cry. 

The tears come slowly at first. Despite cleaning up as best he could earlier, he still finds Elias’s come leaking out of him, marking his underwear with physical evidence of shame. He shoves the briefs off his ankles and throws them into the sink. The pristine cleanliness of the washroom mocks him.

Then he hears Elias’s voice — just a ghost, since Elias is asleep in bed — asking _can you be brave for me, love?,_ and the tears don’t come slowly at all.

His vision blurs, and somehow his feet are upended and he’s crumpled on the floor, his chest heaving with splitting, breaking sobs. He doesn’t understand why or where they are coming from, just that they crucify his body with agony. He hugs his arms to his chest, clutching onto his own shoulders with sharp nails that dig into his flesh. 

_I’m not brave,_ the voice of Jon’s ghost answers, cool and collected and standing cruelly over him. _And please don’t ask me to pretend._

The pain isn’t enough. He folds in on himself, presses his forehead between his knees, and pushes hard against the wall. He wills the tidal wave to come, to lay waste to everything he is — anything for the relief from this acute horror.

He could wake Elias up, ask him to hold him, to murmur reassurance in his ear. But his limbs stubbornly refuse. He’s already been a proper mess — acting like a _child_ , who needed Elias to _hold his hand_ for them to have sex — and it’s truly baffling that Elias isn’t sick of him by now. _He’s_ sick of him.

He doesn’t know how long he cries, but rocking against the wall seems to help. It might be hours; when he finally lifts his fingers from his arms, there are angry, crescent indents in his skin. His eyes are puffy and he feels like little more than an empty shell.

But an empty one is better than one sheathed in spikes.

Jon gets up, clumsily, and pads back into Elias’s bedroom.

Elias had done nothing but touch him all evening, but his body aches to be held. He shivers even though it’s not cold, and crawls back under the blankets, wrapping them around him as much as he can manage without disturbing Elias.

He looks so peaceful: the lines of his forehead smooth, brow unfurrowed, his lips ever so slightly parted. Jon drinks in the sight of him, shifting a little closer and letting the softness of his body calm his own.

“Elias,” he whispers, after a while. 

But he doesn’t move; his breaths are soft and susurrant with sleep. 

Jon curls into him, craving his warmth. In his sleep, Elias’s hand comes to rest on his waist, effortlessly finding the exposed skin where his shirt rides up. It’s not enough, but Jon nestles into it anyway. 

He closes his eyes and lies awake for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a third chapter on this is possible, given how many Feelings shall be occurring after this (and we all need more jonmartin in our lives), and more in this AU is very likely <3
> 
> if anyone’s on the market for a beta trade, [come find me on tumblr](https://fav-littleleaf.tumblr.com/) or email (link in profile)! In fact, come find me anyway because I really want friends to yell with about jonelias!!


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